Testimonials from Isabel’s Fourth of July Support Group

By Hans Casteels, reporting from Canada, where fireworks are still annoying but at least usually delivered with an apology and a permit

Every year, somewhere south of us, Americans celebrate Independence Day by proving their independence from common sense, municipal noise bylaws, and the emotional well being of every dog within a twelve mile blast radius. They do this with fireworks, which are basically the human species announcing, “We have invented civilization, and now we shall commemorate it by detonating the sky.” This year, Isabel attended a support group.

This was not her idea. Isabel, being a Newfoundland puppy of refined temperament and developing opinions, had hoped to spend the evening chewing something expensive, rejecting kibble with the moral authority of a Belgian customs officer, and possibly lying across a doorway like an emotional speed bump. Instead, she found herself seated among other dogs who had survived previous Fourths of July and were now gathering to process the trauma, share coping strategies, and discuss why humans insist on calling this “fun,” when it has all the acoustic charm of a small artillery exchange in a Walmart parking lot.

The meeting began with a greyhound named Barry, who wore the facial expression of a dog who had once seen a reusable shopping bag move by itself in the wind and had never fully recovered. Barry spoke first. He said the whole problem began with language. Humans call it an “anxiety vest,” which is exactly the kind of branding decision that could only come from a species that also created “wellness apps” and airport sandwiches. Barry said it should be called the Cape of Bravery, because no self respecting dog wants to be compressed into a garment that sounds like it was prescribed by a therapist who bills in fifteen minute increments.

A Labrador then explained that if humans truly loved dogs as much as their refrigerator magnets, couch pillows, coffee mugs, decorative plaques, and little signs in fake farmhouse script said they did, they would move somewhere without birthday parties that sound like the fall of Antwerp in a particularly disorganized war. This caused several dogs to nod. Isabel nodded too, although she is still young enough to nod at anything, including the refrigerator, cheese wrappers, and the possibility that Sharon might be holding salmon.

A black dog with a blue collar then presented a detailed medication strategy, because apparently this support group had subcommittees, which is how you know civilization is collapsing. He explained that the only control dogs have during the entire cheesy, Walmart shirted, terror inducing soirée is to spit out the bread wrapped Xanax repeatedly until the humans finally understand that medicine belongs in meat. This was received as a breakthrough. Several dogs took notes. Isabel asked whether sardines in olive oil would also be acceptable, because she is not a barbarian and was raised in a home with standards.

Then came the testimony from a small dog who had once run away during the fireworks. The room went quiet. Even the poodle stopped looking personally offended by existence. The small dog said not to do it. Running away only makes everything worse, because then strangers chase you, making baby talk, waving hot dogs, and acting as if a damp piece of mechanically suspicious meat can repair a nervous system that has just heard Uncle Brad launch something called Freedom Thunder Vengeance from the driveway.

Another dog spoke about independence, which was brave, because dogs understand independence in a very particular way. Humans announce independence by exploding the neighborhood. Dogs respond by seeking their own independence through window treatment destruction, rug desecration, and the occasional excavation attempt through the bathroom wall. Isabel listened carefully to this part. She has the face of a creature who believes civil disobedience should remain on the table, preferably under the table, where the shoes are.

The final speaker was an older dog seated in a chair, looking at a tablet, because apparently even dogs now doom scroll after national trauma. He said the morning after fireworks is almost worse than the fireworks themselves, because you wake up and wonder whether you actually did dig through the bathtub. And if so, what exactly is under there? Could it be safe? Could it be cozy? Could it be a secret country without vacuum cleaners, balloons, power tools, or men named Doug saying, “Don’t worry, she’s friendly,” while their dog approaches like a poorly managed livestock incident?

By the end of the meeting, Isabel had reached several conclusions. First, fireworks are not celebrations. They are a referendum on whether humans can be trusted with fire, chemistry, and a long weekend. Second, every anxious dog deserves a support plan involving darkness, soft voices, secure doors, a trusted human nearby, and absolutely no lectures about how “it’s just noise,” because that is the kind of sentence that should be punished by making the speaker sleep beside a smoke detector with low batteries. Third, if a medication is required, it should be delivered in meat, not bread, because bread is for toast with proper butter and homemade jam, not pharmaceutical betrayal.

When the meeting adjourned, Isabel did not feel cured. This is because Isabel is intelligent enough not to believe in magical endings, unlike humans, who believe fireworks are festive, lawn ornaments are meaningful, and Canada Day traffic will somehow be different this year. But she did feel understood. Around her were dogs who knew that fear is not misbehavior. Panic is not disobedience. Trembling is not drama. Sometimes the brave thing is not to sit proudly under a flag while explosions rattle the windows. Sometimes the brave thing is to hide behind the sofa, accept a sardine, and let someone who loves you sit quietly nearby without turning the whole thing into a training opportunity.

And so Isabel returned home, wiser, calmer, and still fully prepared to chew a baseboard if the Republic got too enthusiastic again. This seems fair. Humans have their fireworks. Dogs have their coping mechanisms. The carpets, as usual, are innocent bystanders.

If I May… While the Malinois organized the dogs, the babies in the NICU were doing the hardest work of all: learning how to breathe, grow and survive. They arrive far too early, impossibly small and without so much as a decent complaint department, while nurses like my daughter Ashley spend their days and nights watching every heartbeat, every breath and every fragile ounce of progress. A donation to the NICU helps provide the equipment, care and support these babies and their families need during the most frightening days of their lives. Please consider contributing. The dogs may have the support group, but the babies deserve every possible advantage.

The essays will remain free. The bassinets, unfortunately, are not.

https://gofund.me/a0fc0777e